This Is The Year Where Hope Fails You
by kissofnightshade
Summary: Post Apocalyptic Slipknot fic


The sun, though low in the sky, was making Sid swelter, despite weather appropriate clothing. Well, in his mind it was. Which didn't mean much. A tattered, but still (barely) functioning gas mask swung side to side from his neck as he worked on a motor he was convinced wasn't beyond help. If he could get this rusty piece of shit to run, he and a few others would have a much better time getting to the city to scavenge. His once white t-shirt, with sleeves torn off, and a large hole near his left kidney, was stained with oil, rust, and dirt. He was so fucking sick of the desert like place he lived. Dirt. Dirt. And occasionally, if you were lucky, a rock. He longed for the decent clothing he once possessed as opposed to the rags he wore now. The shirt he had was pulled off some dead dude he'd found slumped over the same motor he was currently working on. And his pants were stolen from one of the taller members of his little survival group, not that anyone cared if Sid took something. They were ugly cargo pants, hemmed down to fit him, although poorly, and were nearly worn through at the knees.

Sid curled his nose at his own stench, amplified by the heat. He longed for a shower or bath, but running water was a dream of the past. It disgusted him how everyone smelled. Especially himself. He had prided himself on being clean. What "clean" he wasn't entirely sure, so he attributed it to cleanliness. Maybe it was drugs and alcohol. He couldn't quite remember.

He snickered, suddenly, at a passing thought, though he couldn't make heads or tails of it. The laugh caused Chris to pause his story he had been telling. How could Sid just forget Chris was there? He'd been droning on for an hour now, and his jaw hurt from talking so damn much. But Sid loved hearing Chris tell stories. Perhaps that's why he'd forgotten his closest friend was there. They both were relaxed. It was the millionth time Sid heard this particular story, but he still liked it. "What's funny?" Chris inquired.

"Hmm?" Sid giggled like a child this time. He found nearly everything amusing. The perhaps one and only good side effect of the radiation he'd suffered. He would have been diagnosed legally insane, had the world not gone to shit.

"You laughed." Chris knew it was generally futile, but on rare occasions, Sid would allow the smallest glimpse into his thoughts... provided /he/ even knew what he was really thinking, and could explain.

"And?" His electric blue eyes bore holes into Chris. He was in a shit mood, despite the outburst of laughter. Relaxed, perhaps. But in a shit mood nonetheless.

"Why?" He met Sid's blue gaze with his own, although his eyes had less intensity in their colour, they were much clearer and easy to read to anyone. He was very much an open book, if you knew him at all; making him an easy victim to Sid, who loved to tease.

"Because platypuses have duck bills, obviously. Why else would I laugh?" He smirked. Sid wanted to piss Chris off. Pissed off Chris provided entertainment. Sid was sadly well aware that he lacked all reason, he himself didn't even know why he laughed. He really couldn't make his mind work even the slightest bit differently. It frustrated him to no end. Precisely why he was in a shit mood, today. It had been particularly bad, lately. His reasoning, or lack thereof, was getting more muddled. It was hard, knowing your mind was leaving you. Sid didn't tell anyone that he knew he wasn't right. It would only upset them and make them baby him more than they already did.

"Sid..." He looked at him pleadingly, made more pathetic by his graying brown mess of hair, dirty face, and torn up military jacket that was too small around his armpits, and his pants short and tight like leggings, although they were supposed to be baggy jeans for a small teenager. The jacket had the sleeves cut off long ago, and was left open with a grayish, stained shirt underneath. A faded Metallica logo was still visible on it, though one had to focus to really notice it.

"Chris." Sid flipped his ratty brown hair from his face and began to laugh again. He liked upsetting people. Upset was easy to understand. But upset was terrifying if it got to be too present. It was an interesting balancing act.

"Fine. Should I keep telling the story?" Chris wanted to end the fight before it started. Sid didn't answer, instead returning to his obsession with the motor. He wiped at the sweat on his brow, blackening his face with oil and dirt even further.

Chris remained silent, then. Sid obviously was trying to signal he had had enough and wanted to focus. He hated that Sid slaved away on such a pointless project, dedicating his heart and soul into something that'd never reward him. But it made him so happy to work and not be ridiculed. Chris loved seeing Sid happy. It meant that Sid was still in that head somewhere. And so he let him work.

Chris understood Sid better than anyone else. Although that didn't mean much, at times. It was actually a mutual understanding, most of the time. He was the only one Sid would honestly listen to. And Sid often was the only one to listen to him. They were close friends, perhaps the closest left of the "brotherhood" they all used to share. Just as he opened his mouth to remind Sid to drink a little water, a screaming match between Corey and Shawn broke out. They always fought. Stress caused a lot of tension between all nine men in the group. Even Sid would occasionally get in a pissing match with someone. The last time that happened was... bloody.

"GOD DAMN IT, YOU FAT FUCK! WE CANT SPARE THE EXTRA FOOD FOR YOU TO SNACK, AND YOU KNOW IT!" Corey was called "Nazi General Taylor" behind his back constantly. For this exact reason. He had taken rule of the group with an iron fist.

"I SKIPPED BREAKFAST SO YOU COULD EAT, YOU ASSHOLE!" Shawn lit off, trying to defend himself. But his and anyone else's efforts against Corey rarely bore fruit.

"THE FUCK YOU DID. I-"

"THE FUCK YOU MEAN, THE FUCK I DID?!"

It carried on, getting more intense. Sid started shaking violently, dropping the tool in his hand. He hated fights amongst any of the men he once considered a brother. It warped him further and often resulted in him bawling and screaming. Or worse. Chris offered a comforting hug, but Sid turned him away and sat in the shade of the motor on its stand. With a whimper, Sid began babbling in what everyone had determined was his own version of English, and rocking himself. As far as Chris knew, it was a coping mechanism. Not much could be done when Sid reached this point, as he was impossible to comfort.

Trying to avoid further agitating his mentally disturbed friend, Chris got up and walked to one of the two guards, Mick. He was tall and muscular, although slightly emaciated like everyone else. 6'4" and 190 pounds, easily. He had long, black hair that fell over his eyes, giving him a caveman like appearance. His nasolabial crease was deep, enhancing the permanent frown on his face. It was then framed by a black beard. He wore a fishing vest stuffed with metal as protection, a tattered t-shirt, and holey jeans. His huge combat boots were worn through at the toes, and laces frayed badly. But despite the tattered clothing, he was extremely intimidating to any potential bandits due to sheer size alone.

"Sid's having a meltdown." Chris offered, trying to start a conversation.

"Mm." Mick was quiet. He wasn't always this way, but after watching his family slaughtered by the nuclear war, and later, looters, he'd been understandably depressed and withdrawn.

"You okay?" He already knew the answer, and knew Mickael would lie. That's how it always was. It was a game everyone played. Keep a happy smile even if you're homicidal... or suicidal.

"I guess. Tired of Corey yelling at everyone." Mick replied in a near monotone, but still unable to hide the biting edge in his voice.

"He's stressed..." Chris wanted to defend their leader, knowing it wasn't easy for him to keep nine men under control after an apocalyptic event.

"So are the rest of us." He snapped, showing more emotion now than he had in months. He furrowed his brow and glared at Chris, icy blue eyes burning like fire underneath his wild mane of hair.

Chris sighed, he wasn't going to win with anyone today, it would seem. The fight between Corey and Shawn had blown up into a brawl between them, Jay, Alessandro, and surprisingly, Craig. Chris felt his curiosity piqued, as Craig was the quiet member who rarely spoke an ill word or offered to fight.

The other guard, Jim, whom was two inches taller, but much thinner, began to try pulling them apart. "MICK!" He yowled, straining to keep Corey from shredding Jay open.

With a heavy sigh, Mick murmured a "Later," to Chris, and trudged off to help.

Chris watched Jim, who looked almost scrawny compared to Mick, as he lifted up Jay, a drummer in a now-past life, and pulled him away from the fight. Jim had brown hair that fell over one eye, a thick, bushy beard, and chocolatey brown eyes that held an ocean of pain. His tattoos, and everyone else's, once stood out clearly, but had faded in the unforgiving sun, and begun to blend into his tan.

The man Jim was dragging was about average sized, but unfortunately thin like the rest. He too, had brown hair and eyes. His hair hung behind his shoulders in a messy nest. He was uttering oaths of all sorts at the men left in the fray.

One by one, they were removed and kept from killing each other. Craig chose to leave once Mick walked over, initially he was just trying to mediate, and ended up catching a punch to the jaw.

Corey's thick neck was bulging, and he looked eager for a second fight. His dirty blonde- gingerish hair was everywhere, and his steely blue-grey eyes were hard. They darted about, looking for the slightest hint of aggression. He was the shortest, standing at 5'8" when his spine was erect like a soldier, and legs straight. Despite his stature, he was strong and heavily muscled. His gaze eventually landed on shawn and he growled low in his throat, pissed off to no end. He stalked forward as though to start in, but a sharp hiss of warning from Mick stopped him. Corey snarled, shooting Shawn one last nasty look, then returned to tending to rations.

Shawn was slightly heavy set at one time, but now was thin and hunched over, with grey hair pulled back in a ponytail, and piercing blue eyes that made most of them uncomfortable if directed at them. He was whip smart, much like Corey. It was this intelligence that caused them to fight seemingly an extra bit more than anyone else. Shawn returned Corey's evil glare with one of his own, then returned to working on a water filter. If he could finish it, their water crisis would, at the very least, be lessened. Most water was horribly dirty. If it was drank, then the unfortunate consumer would suffer many ill side effects, death at the worst end of it. He groaned, body aching worse after the quarrel.

Much later in the evening, when the only natural light was a half moon, Chris was left on fire duty. If the fire went out, they were all dead. So this was technically the most important job of all jobs. He sat, watching the embers spring back to life as he fed a few more dry sticks to the hungry flame. Fire duty generally was just that, tending to the fire the camp was centred around. But whoever was in charge of it also had to keep their heads on a swivel. Hell was just at the edges of the light, waiting to slaughter them all.

The day's events ran around in Chris' head, causing a minor headache. He scowled. Every fight, every laugh, every twitch of Sid's hand all were fresh in his mind, relentlessly playing over and over. He always thought long and hard about each day, wondering if he'd done one thing a little differently, if the consequences of said action would have been different. He cursed his near perfect memory. It bothered him, all the tension that was nearly palpable and he couldn't ever just forget about it. He felt like any wrong move and the balance would finally snap, everyone would turn to into a complete murderer. That day would come, inevitably. They all knew it. And most of them would die when it did.

Taking a mild break from his racing thoughts, he looked around and shuddered, although it was far from cold. He recalled a word he'd read ages and ages ago./p

Nyctophobia. Noun. Extreme or irrational fear of the dark.

It was hardly irrational, any more. But most certainly extreme. The terrors of an imaginative child's mind were reality. But the monsters and demons that twisted in the shadows and reached out to snatch you in the dead of night were too often people. Bandits would take anything or anyone if it was at all beneficial for them.

Again a shiver prickled up his spine. It was terrifying what humans were capable of when desperate. He watched a group kill a family of five without a second thought, just for the clothes off their backs and food in their bags. One particular sound remained lodged in his memories; the sickening sound of one of the marauders snapping an infant's neck. Once again he cursed his ability to remember anything, no matter how hard he tried not to.

The crunch of feet fast approaching after a loud roar set his head on a wild swivel, and he drew a knife that he kept concealed under his jacket-turned-vest. Abruptly, Sid leapt onto him from the darkness, causing a fit of curses after he screamed.

"SIDNEY! WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?!" He instantly regretted yelling at Sid. He didn't mean to scare anyone, he doesn't think things through.

Sid whimpered at the reprimanding tone, and looked down, mumbling something incoherent.

"What?" Chris hissed.

"I got the motor running!" Sid flashed a tiny smile, proud of himself.

"Shit... really?! No fuckin' way." He'd seen the motor, it was decrepit. No way even Sid got it running.

"Yeah, really. Can't you hear her purr?" Sid was absolutely beaming now that Chris had calmed down.

After a short pause, confirming the motor was running, Chris wrapped Sid into an overjoyed hug. "Holy shit, you fuckin' bastard. I didn't think it would ever fire."

Sid bounced happily, then wormed away like a child. "I'm gonna go turn it off." He bounded away into the black, causing Chris' heart to leap into his throat. He cried out, "SID!"

After a few terrifying moments, the motor turned off and Sid wandered back. Chris leaned back and sighed with relief. "Idiot. You know we shouldn't be out in the dark.

"But I had to turn it off." He had a half assed argumentative tone

"Sid, come on... You know better. Come sit with me." He pat the dirt next to himself.

"... Okay." Sid wandered over and sat obediently next to Chris, giggling at the way the shadows cast by the fire made him look ghostly. After about a minute, Chris gave Sid a relieved hug, then sternly reprimanded him like the child he was. "You can't fuckin' do that. What if someone or something hurt you? We'd all be really upset.

Sid sat in silence. He knew he'd forgotten something when it was dark. He murmured an apology, and scooted away with a scowl. He didn't need to be babysat.

"Sid?" Chris sighed when no response came. He returned to tending the fire, chewing the inside of his cheek. He supposed he'd be waiting until morning for anyone to speak to him again.


End file.
